


figure that the fear to try

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Background Angst, Catalyst Art Show, F/M, Foreground Fluff, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of Lardo’s exhibit, a handful of things go wrong before any go right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	figure that the fear to try

**Author's Note:**

> that update though!!!!! i will never be free!!! i'm so happy these kids are back. i missed them all so much.
> 
> all mistakes are my own.
> 
> title from the song 'timothy' by the tallest man on earth, which, like, you should listen to.

The night of Lardo’s exhibit, a handful of things go wrong before any go right.

 

* * *

 

It’s a hell of a time getting ready, Shitty squished in beside Jack in their bathroom. Shitty is all nerves in a way that set Jack edge only in a mild sense. Jack’s excited, he looks fucking awesome in his grey suit, and Bittle’s been excited about it all week. There’s a rumour floating around--that Jack thinks Lardo started herself, but that only mostly means that it’s probably a true rumour--that there’s an open bar. Jack could be persuaded into having a drink that wasn’t the cheapest red label vodka mixed into a frozen can of juice, or a pbr.

Even if it’s not an open bar, he may very well buy himself a nice glass of red, buy some champagne for Lardo, for Bittle. Maybe the boys, but they’re mostly idiots and they don’t need his help in making a fool of themselves, so he may just leave them be.

He elbows Shitty once more before ducking back into his room. His camera battery is charged, he has gum in his pocket. Bittle looks cute as shit and preppy as hell, and Jack can feel his cheeks heat up when they both step into the hallway at the same time.

Jack stutters, his words caught in his throat. He coughs once, then tries again, says, “You look nice,” before gesturing for Bittle to head down the stairs first.

Bittle says, “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

He’s feeling antsy in a way that isn’t really anxiety, is more anticipation. Lardo’s an amazing artist, and he’s always happy to try to participate in art in any way he can. As he follows Bittle down the stairs, he has to stop himself from placing his hand on the small of Bittle’s back, but then he steals himself and does it anyway. Bittle doesn’t do anything, just keeps walking down the stairs like he always does, like he’s a hop, skip and a jump away from where he wants to go, always slightly in a hurry in a way that leaves him with rosy cheeks and hands that gesticulate too quickly when he’s rambling.

The night starts fine, and once they’re able to get everyone out the door, the walk over is fine.

It’s a bit like Cinderella, Jack guesses. Everything seems like magic until the party starts. The potential for a fairytale is there until it’s not, and by the time the clock strikes midnight, it always turns to shit.

**  
  
**

* * *

 

The frogs are talking about boobs, which, good for them, but not Jack’s area of expertise. They’re still kids, Jack’s nearly a decade older than them, give or take the change, and it seems wrong to him to talk to them about where they are or aren’t putting their dicks. He cringes, shakes the thought from his head. The painting does look like a body, in an abstract sort of way that all things look like bodies. Jack was a teenager once, he remembers making a joke out of anything remotely phallic, remembers teammates doing the same. The boys trying to sexualize Lardo’s painting doesn’t seem much different.

Holster won’t shut the fuck up about the open bar--true rumour, go Lardo--and Jack considers leading Bittle in its direction until Lardo starts talking about graduation. Bittle’s face falls and immediately rights itself. Jack’s spent enough time watching him tonight, and for the last little while, if he’s honest, that he knows that Bittle’s struggling with something, and it makes sense that it would be related to Jack and Shitty both graduating.

But then Shitty stops laughing, stops playing with Lardo’s hair, and Jack doesn’t notice, not right away, he mostly notices Bittle noticing. And that has to say something pretty clear about Jack, because Shitty never shuts the fuck up, but there are silent stretches of time between Shitty saying “Um...” and “I…” and “Got into Harvard,” each gap gathering and pooling together to seem longer than possible.

And that seems like something going right, to Jack; it’s something Shitty deserves, something that he worked hard for, something that would undeniably help his relationship with his family, should Shitty want it or not.

Except for at some point while they’re all doggy-pile-group-hugging Shitty, Lardo slips away, and then Bittle slips away. That time, Jack doesn’t notice until after Holster says, “So, that open bar?” When Bittle isn’t where Jack thought he was, isn’t anywhere that Jack can see, he gets it. Shitty’s eyes are still wide, clearly shocked, and as he presses his phone to his ear, Jack makes note of Lardo’s absence, too.

He checks his phone, and it’s only barely after 8 o’clock, but it’s like the fairy godmother’s spell dropping at the stroke of midnight, the magic of Lardo’s show and Shitty’s acceptance falling away like anything else that isn’t meant to last.

* * *

 

Jack knows how Shitty feels about Lardo. He’s known it for years. Known it since the day Shitty met her, knocking her coffee out of her hands and all over his shirt like a scene from a movie, and how he came home coffee-stained but smiling, and said, “Jack, Christ, I just met the coolest girl on the planet,” like he really, really meant it.

What had surprised him, really, was learning that Lardo felt the same. That Lardo wanted to escape on exchange because she thought Shitty didn’t feel that way, couldn’t feel that way. What had surprised Jack, really, was when Lardo came home, was normal, and then a week later whispered to him over their caf-bought lunch how she hated that she was so happy to see Shitty again, how she’d hoped it would go away, turn rusted and worn and tired with the distance. It hadn’t, she’d said. “I just felt sad, which is ridiculous, because he’s just a stupid boy.”

Jack had agreed at the time, saying, “Yeah, he is a dumb ass, that’s not news.”

Now, though, Jack thinks he gets it. His eyes dart around the room, its high ceilings and hardwood floors and everyone’s nice clothing, and he can’t find Bittle anywhere. Jack had spent Christmas break eating cookies and remembering the heat of Bittle’s shoulder under Jack’s arm before Kent showed up. He knows, now, that it’s easy to miss people more than you can bear, that it’s easy for people to sneak their way under your skin when you aren’t paying attention for it.

Shitty’s just a stupid boy, Jack can attest to that, but he’s a stupid boy that is skilled in worming his way into lives easily. Jack had been hard as nails and so closed off as to be locked up when he met Shitty. He understands why Lardo feels the way she does; he feels that strong swell of easy companionship for Shitty in a different way, but he feels it all the same.

Jack has spent too much time watching Shitty and Lardo both suffer at their own hands. It’s scary, Jack knows, to want someone so much that it’s hard to breathe under the weight of it. And he gets that it’s easier to live without knowing, to avoid the possible rejection at all costs.

Jack says to Holster, “We’ll meet you over there in a second,” before shoving them towards the open bar, and he’s surprised when they go. Even as he’s on the phone, Shitty’s eyes are darting around, clearly noticing Lardo’s absence.

Jack knows that love is scary. He knows it’s costly. Still, he doesn’t ever want to feel the way Shitty looks now.

He loves both Shitty and Lardo very much, but he doesn’t ever want to be like either of them, where Bittle’s concerned.

* * *

 

Bittle comes in through the front entrance fifteen minutes later, his arm around Lardo’s shoulder. Jack has been watching the door since he eliminated the bathrooms from his list of possible locations. The exhibit is impressive, big, but not so huge that there are many places to hide, and it’s easy to narrow Bittle and Lardo’s location to Not Inside.

Bittle ushers Lardo towards the washrooms, and Jack watches as Bittle squeezes her tight before letting her slip behind the door. He looks around, and Jack catches his eye. Jack doesn’t smile, just holds Bittle’s gaze until Bittle makes his way over to them.

“She gonna be okay?” Jack asks, his head tucked low, bent so that he’s only speaking to Bittle.

Bittle shrugs. “Always is,” he says, like he wants to say something else. “Where’s Shitty?”

Jack points in the direction of the bar. “I got you a glass of white, I wasn’t sure…” Jack trails off, hands the wine over to Bittle. “They’re doing shots, but--”

“This is good,” Bittle says. “Thank you.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say until it strikes him that Bittle probably knows all about the situation between Shitty and Lardo. Maybe not in the way that Jack knows it, but a different perspective is always valuable. Jack says, “Shitty’s trying to pretend like nothing’s wrong.”

“He noticed that we left? I didn’t mean to--”

Jack waves his hand, trying to stop Bittle’s worry before it grows. “No,” Jack says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You know how they are,” Jack says, even though he’s not entirely sure what Bittle knows.

Bittle sighs, and says, “Yeah.” He takes a sip of his wine. “She--I--It kinda sucks, huh?”

Jack nods, clinks his glass to Bittle’s. “Sure does.”

**  
  
  
**

* * *

 

When Lardo slips beside Bittle, her eyes are a little pink but her make-up looks beautiful as always, and she leans her head on Bittle’s shoulder, but it’s nothing new, doesn’t make her appear any worse for wear. Jack says, “You wanna look around?” He can see Shitty looking at them from the corner of his eye, but he can also see Lardo resolutely not looking in Shitty’s direction. It’s a pathetic avoidance tactic in Jack’s opinion, but it’s a part of their whole thing. They lie by omission to each other all the time, if their feel-it-but-don’t-admit-it dynamic is anything to go by, and this non-admission of grief, their “Don’t Say ‘Gone’ Or Get a Noogie” game, is the same. It’s not surprising.

* * *

 

Bittle finally notices that Chowder’s wearing a god damned Shark’s hoodie under his blazer, and promptly loses his shit, which isn’t something that goes wrong on the same scale, but it doesn’t score points for the Cinderella evening Jack had envisioned, either.

* * *

 

Jack has a second glass of wine, and he feels warm all over. He climbs into the pink art piece/cave, and says, “Bittle, there’s a TV in here.”

When Bittle joins him in the cramped space, Bittle says, “Do you think we’re allowed to be in here?”

“Why would they put a TV in here if we weren’t?” Jack asks.

Bittle is quiet before he says, “Jack, I think this is an abstract vagina.”

A laugh bursts out of Jack, and he says, “Bet you never thought you’d find yourself in one of these.”

“Jack!” Bittle says, cackling. “Oh my god.” He slugs Jack in the arm, and Jack laughs.

“Not all abstract art is sexual,” Jack says, even as he wipes at his eyes.

“You’re going to emerge from these pink walls a new man, Jack, just you wait.”

Jack erupts into laughter again.

* * *

 

Jack is taking a photo when a red-haired girl comes to stand beside him.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hey,” she says, still looking across the room at something. Jack follows her gaze to where Lardo is standing with Ransom and Holster.

“It’s not either of them,” Jack says, and she hums.

“Yeah, Larissa said he’s got a ponytail. I was trying to scope him, but I haven’t seen her with anyone fitting the description all night.”

Jack drops his camera, holds it at his side. “He’s over there.” He nods in Shitty’s direction, and the girl follows his gaze to where Shitty is standing with Bittle and the frogs.

“What’s his name?” She asks. “Larissa only calls him ‘Shitty,’ and while I think it’s a fair assessment considering, I know that can’t be his name.”

Jack can hear Lardo’s voice saying, “My art friends think I’m angsty,” and he knows this girl only wants to protect her. He smiles, and says, “You can never tell anyone.”

“Or you’ll have to kill me?”

Jack chuckles. “Probably. If he doesn’t kill me first.”

“Fair enough. Scout’s honour,” she says, and holds up her fingers in salute.

“It’s Bernard,” Jack says. “He’s not a bad guy, just bad at being honest with her.”

The girl hums, and Jack says, “I’m Jack, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” she says. “I’m Tori. I didn’t come over here to make a move on you, either. I know you’re, like, the Campus celeb, but your boy’s too cute, I’d never--”

“I don’t--” Jack says, stops. “I didn’t think you were, really.”

She smiles at him, and says, “Cool. So other than our friends being in love but stupid with it, what’s up? You get any cool pictures yet?”

Jack says, “Are you a photo major?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, graphic design and digital art.”

“You can’t tease me,” he says, but he hands over his Nikon anyway.

She clicks through them, and says, “What’re you talking about, teasing? These are pretty good.”

 

* * *

 

Shitty’s dad calls, and even though Shitty steps to the edge of the room to take the call, Jack can see the moment it turns sour.

Shitty’s complicated mood gets worse, and Jack finds himself searching out Bittle, trying to stand beside him as much as he can get away with.

The night feels heavy with the conversations that aren’t happening. Jack doesn’t think he’s imagining the tension, because Bittle’s shoulders drop just a bit whenever they step away from either Lardo or Shitty. He’s got a furrowed brow, and Jack wants to run his thumb along the wrinkle but doesn’t.  

He says, instead, “My mom used to say my face would get stuck like that.” It makes Bittle shake himself out a bit, and he smiles.

“My mama used to say the same thing when I rolled my eyes, said I’d get ‘em stuck lookin’ at the inside of my skull.”

Jack smiles. Bittle’s shoulder knocks Jack’s arm as they walk back towards Lardo’s piece. Jack hands his glass of wine to Bittle so he can stick a little sticker next to her painting, and when Jack reaches to take his glass back, their fingers slip against each others. Bittle doesn’t flush, but Jack’s three glasses of wine ahead of Bittle’s one. He blames his own heated cheeks on that, blames Bittle for his impressive poker face.

“It’s not your job to fix their problems for them,” Jack says eventually. He finishes his wine and the empty glass feels sweaty in his hand.

Bittle sighs. “I want them both to be happy, I don’t understand why they stand in their own way.”

Jack considers it. “It’s hard,” he starts. “When the people who are supposed to protect you let you down, it’s hard to let new people protect you when they come around.” Bittle turns to face Jack, and Jack can feel his gaze on his profile.

“Shitty’s dad is an asshole,” Bittle says, which isn’t what Jack was expecting, but makes sense.

“All dad’s are kinda assholes,” Jack says. “I think it comes with the job.”

Bittle looks back at Lardo’s piece. “I guess.”

“I don’t know that that should stop anyone from trying to be happy, though.”

Bittle smiles and says, “D’you include yourself in that, Team Dad Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack laughs. “If I’m Team Dad, you’re Team Mom.”

Bittle chuckles, knocks his shoulder into Jack’s. “I’d take it,” Bittle says. “There’re worse things to be.”

Jack agrees; if they’re the team parents in the Family Haus metaphor, he imagines that makes Shitty and Lardo the nearly-divorced aunt and uncle, and the metaphor falls apart there, but it would still make for a weird family dinner, which is what Jack guesses this art show is standing in for.

* * *

 

Lardo has to stay longer than the rest of them.

“We’re gonna head out,” Jack says, pointing to where Bittle is yawning while wrestling his way into his peacoat.

“We’ll come,” Ransom says, his arm thrown around Holster’s waist. “Shits?”

“I kinda wanna stay,” he says.

“Okay,” Jack says. “‘Night?”

“See ya in the morning,” Shitty says. Holster hugs him, and Jack goes to wait outside with Bittle. It takes Ransom another two minutes, and he says, “Holster’s just getting his shit.”

After another five minutes, Holster comes outside with Shitty, and Jack says, “Thought you were gonna stay.”

Shitty shrugs. “Holster was waxing poetic in my ear about how brilliant I am, couldn’t keep my hands off him after that.”

Jack sees Bittle huff a breath, and it comes out as a small burst of angry steam, but Shitty doesn’t notice, just hooks his arm around Holster and messes up his hair.

* * *

 

Jack is brushing his teeth when Bittle knocks on the washroom door. Jack pulls the door open, his toothbrush hanging from his mouth. He was expecting Shitty, but he’s happier to see Bittle. He’s changed into his pajamas, and he always looks softer to Jack when he’s in his socked feet.

“Bittle,” Jack tries to say, his mouth full of toothpaste. Bittle laughs softly at him, pushes Jack back into the washroom before shutting the door softly.

“Can I ask you something?”

Jack takes his toothbrush out of his mouth, doesn’t spit, and says, “You just did.” He puts his toothbrush back in his mouth as Bittle rolls his eyes. He brushes his molars before spitting into the sink. He runs his toothbrush under the tap, goes back over his teeth once more before spitting again. “Shoot.”

“They haven’t slept together before, have they? I can’t understand why they’re making it so difficult unless--” Bittle shrugs.

“I don’t think so,” Jack says. Bittle huffs, hoists himself so that he’s sitting on the counter, his legs swinging. Jack leans against the opposite wall and says, “I feel like one of them would’ve said something.”

“But?”

“But then again, neither of them likes to talk about it much.”

Bittle huffs a laugh. “Yeah, clearly.”

“I considered playing matchmaker, but I feel like I’m too old for that shit,” Jack says.

“Aren’t they too old for it?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s hard to be honest. Just cause I’ve gone to a lot of therapy doesn’t mean either of them have.”

Bittle doesn’t say anything to that, just swings his legs out in front of him and looks at his hands. “Even with therapy,” Jack says. “It’s still hard. Even though I don’t want to be like them, it’s still scary.”

Bittle nods, his eyes still focused on his hands. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

“Still frustrating to watch, though,” Jack says. “It’s not fun watch them skirt around it. They’d be really happy if they just let themselves get there.”

Bittle looks up at the ceiling, and his eyes look glassy, like he wants to cry. “I know it’s not--not really okay, but it makes me kind of mad,” he says. “I wanted to come to this school because I wanted to escape how much hiding I do at home. I just want a chance to...be okay with how I am. And it makes me so fucking mad, it’s not fair, they’d be happy, they wouldn’t have to worry about what anyone would say, it would be fine, and they just--”

“It seems like a waste,” Jack interrupts. “It’s not fair,” he says. “It should be easy, but they make it hard on their own.”

Bittle nods, and Jack reaches for him, wraps his fingers around Bittle’s knee and squeezes. “I honestly think they both know,” he says. “I think they’re just afraid of the slim chance of either of them being wrong. No one wants to be rejected by someone they like that much.”

Jack watches Bittle’s face, watches where Bittle’s eyes are stuck on Jack’s hand on his knee. Bittle is slow to move, and Jack can feel the tension in him. But when he exhales, the muscles in his legs relax, and he slowly reaches his hand to Jack’s fingers on his leg. Jack relaxes his grip, lets his fingertips graze Bittle’s. It’s soft, like it’s barely there.

“Today was fucked,” Bittle says, and Jack laughs. It breaks the tension between them, and the hesitation falls away from Jack easily. He rests his hand over Bittle’s properly, and Bittle smiles. “I know it’s crazy,” he starts. “But you know how big things always go differently than you expect? New Year’s and Halloween and birthday parties?” Jack nods, and he knows where Bittle’s going with it. “Today felt like that, at the gallery.”

“I know what you mean,” Jack says. He turns his hand over, touches his palm to Bittle’s, and Bittle closes their fingers together. “Then again,” Jack says, “I never thought I’d be holding your hand in the bathroom.”

Bittle blushes, finally, and Jack says, “I really do want to be happy.”

“Yeah,” Bittle says. “I know. Me too.”

“It’d be tough,” he says, and Bittle nods. “It would be complicated.”

Bittle looks back down at their joint hands, and asks, “Worth trying for, though?”

Jack knows the answer is important, and he knows he’d take a million other disaster art events where everything goes wrong so long as Bittle was there with him at the end of it, and he says, “Yeah. I think so.”

* * *

 

Jack goes to sleep in his own bed. His lips tingle, and he wants to jerk off, but he falls asleep to the mental imagine of Bittle smiling in his own bed across the hall.

* * *

 

Shitty is miserable in the morning, says he hasn’t thought about Harvard at all. Jack almost believes him.

* * *

 

Jack lets Bittle push him back into his bedroom door, lets Bittle kiss him hard. It feels like being a teenager again, and Jack can’t stop laughing into Bittle’s mouth, can’t help smiling into the soft skin of Bittle’s neck.

**  
  
**

They go for frozen yoghurt, and Jack pays. They study at Annie’s and Bittle presses his ankle into Jack’s the whole time. They sit side by side at team lunch and their thighs touch the whole time. Bittle doesn’t finish his chicken and Jack says, “You need to eat more protein,” and Bittle rips a piece of bread off his roll to throw in Jack’s face. They play on the same line and they light it up. When Bittle scores, Jack wraps his hands around him, and he doesn’t feel like he’s hiding at all, doesn’t feel like he’s keeping a secret.

**  
  
**

It feels like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

 

Bittle’s in his English seminar, and Jack’s trying to finish up his history readings when Shitty slams his door. Jack pulls his headphones out of his ears, startled, and says, “Jesus--”

Shitty says, “Are you fucking around with Bits?”

He sounds mad, and Jack’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Don’t lie about it.”

“Why’re you mad at me?” Jack asks.

“‘Cause if you fuck with him, I’m going to go fucking crazy. He doesn’t deserve--”

“We’re not fucking around,” Jack says, making sure to emphasize Shitty’s own words when he throws them back at him. “I--”

“Why’re you lying? Fucking shit, Jack, Lardo saw you--”

“We’re not fucking around. We’re happy. I--I like him a lot. I’m not lying. It’s--it’s serious.” It’s not until Jack says it out loud that he understand the scale of it. “Plus this is none of your business.”

Shitty runs his fingers over his moustache, and then he nods. “Okay. Right. Sorry. Right.”

“Are you done?” Jack asks.

Shitty nods, and Jack looks back down at his books. “You don’t get to be mad at me because you got into Harvard.” Shitty sighs, and Jack thinks it says a lot about how much it’s bothering him that Shitty doesn’t argue it. “It’s not my fault that you’re having a hard time. I’m sorry you are, but it has nothing to do with me and Bittle.”

“You don’t have to rub it in my face,” Shitty says, and Jack knows he’s aiming for levity, but Jack can’t be bothered by it.

“We didn’t say anything precisely so we wouldn’t be,” Jack says. “Rubbing it in your face, I mean.”

* * *

 

 

Bittle is back from his seminar, and Jack knows because he can smell pie from up in his room. He finishes his reading notes before heading down the stairs. Bittle is washing a mixing bowl in the sink, the timer on the oven set and counting down. There are still nineteen minutes left, and Jack presses his front to Bittle’s back, and says, “Hey,” into Bittle’s hair.

“Hi,” Bittle says, leaning back gently into Jack. “Is anyone else here?”

“Shitty’s in his room,” Jack says. When Bittle turns around, boxing himself in between Jack’s arms and the sink, Jack says, “He knows about us.”

“Oh,” Bittle says. He runs his nose along Jack’s neck. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Bittle says. “That’s okay. Is that okay for you?”

Jack nods, and Bittle says, “Good.”

“You really don’t care? He was kinda mad. He thought I was messing with you.”

Bittle shrugs. “He’s got a pretty wide protective streak. He tells me I’m his kid on a daily basis.”

“I wouldn’t mess with you,” Jack says.

“Okay,” Bittle says. “That’s good. I wouldn’t mess with you either.”

“I know,” Jack says.

Bittle bites at the tendon in Jack’s neck, and Jack wraps his arms around Bittle properly, presses him back into the counter fully. “Glad that’s settled,” Bittle says with a laugh, and Jack kisses him.

* * *

 

It’s a Sunday and a handful of things go wrong before any go right.

 

* * *

 

Bittle’s been stressed about his stats class, and then he starts swearing under his breath while he’s making dinner, and says, “Fucking Betsy,” with more anger than Jack’s ever heard from him. Jack doesn’t know what that means, but he smiles weakly at Bittle anyway, says, “smells good,” even though the kitchen kinda smells like something’s burning.

“We’re having soup and grilled cheese,” Bittle says, still sounding mad, but that sounds like a fine lunch to Jack. It’s raining and Jack’s always happy to let weather seep its way into his bones, is happy to curl up under blankets and listen to the rainfall on the roof. Soup is a part of the whole experience.

After lunch, Bittle burns a pie and throws the whole thing, dish included, into the trash. Jack’s never seen Bittle burn a pie, ever.

 

* * *

 

Jack’s trying to convince Ransom to play Mario Kart with him and Bittle when Bittle’s phone rings. He comes back fifteen minutes later, and his face is kind of red, his eyes hard.

When Jack lets Ransom win, he tosses his controller to Holster and says, “Sub me out,” before tugging on Bittle’s sleeve.

They don’t even get halfway up the stairs before Bittle says, “My dad’s a fucking asshole.”

Jack is quiet for a moment, then says, “Did you have a fight?”

Bittle says, “No, he just likes to say assholish things that I can’t fight him back about, cause he’s an asshole.”

Jack turns into Bittle’s room, and closes the door once Bittle’s inside. Jack asks, “Are you okay?”

Bittle sighs, and the steam falls out of him. “It’s just a stupid day.”

Jack follows him, pulls back the blankets on Bittle’s bed, forces him to lay down. Jack lays down beside him. Bittle turns into Jack like they’re parentheses, and Jack tucks his nose alongside Bittle’s.

“Day’ll be over before you know it,” Jack whispers after a few minutes. “We’ll try again.”

Bittle traces his fingers along Jack’s lower back, touches his skin softly where his shirt is rucked up. Jack thinks about the soft way Bittle fits into him. Bad days are different than terrible things, he knows there’s a difference even though he can’t describe it. Bad art shows don’t mean bad nights, the Cinderella magic runs out, but Jack thinks that maybe the whole point of the fairy tale is the stuff that comes easy, the After. The sun comes up and the bad day bleeds into the background. Jack kisses at Bittle’s chin, runs his fingertips over the shell of his ears.

Bittle says, “Jack,” and it sounds sweeter, soft in a way that so many things about Bittle are.

Jack says, “I know,” and Bittle sighs against Jack’s lips.

Jack’s had people under his skin before, but never in the way Bittle is, never in a way that fits without blistering. It’s easy, even when it’s complicated and hidden away and only theirs.

Jack’s fought battles against himself, his monsters live with him, but it’s okay.

It’s easier than he thought, easier than Shitty or Lardo make it seem.

Jack gets that it can be hard to share your life with someone, let them into all the tight and awkward spaces of who you are, and Bittle’s bed is small, but they both fit just fine.

**  
  
  
**


End file.
